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Just something I wrote while greiving my grandfather.
Lifeless blue eyes shrouded by such paper white skin.
Ice cold is wrong for this man once brimming with fiery passion,
Animated in every way, shape, form but now unmoving, uncaring.
How can so many memories be of these frozen blue eyes?
A stiff, blue hand clasped in my own but no returned grip.
A hand that comforted, stopped the hurt, punished, taught, moved with elegance and purpose
Now limp, unmoving in certain death.
How can so many thoughts revolve around this unliving hand?
Smooth colorless face which holds a blank expression.
Did a smile ever burden those pale cheeks or quark those thin lined lips?
So many colorful bedtime stories maybe had never past through that rigid mouth.
How can this be the last memory of such an alive person?
Its against law, moral, everything I have ever believed in,
Realization, such sweet knowledge.
This isn’t he,
Not this empty shell.